


my held breath fills the room with love

by scrapbullet



Series: all these things they will change [7]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Finale, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15060110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: "I confess,” James says one sunny morning, his fingers caked in moist soil as he carefully inspects each precious plant for signs of damage, “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. Miranda was the expert gardener, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labours.”Thomas, diligently digging up weeds to expose their roots, stifles a laugh. “I gathered that when you tried to pull up my geraniums, dearest.”





	my held breath fills the room with love

"I confess,” James says one sunny morning, his fingers caked in moist soil as he carefully inspects each precious plant for signs of damage, “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. Miranda was the expert gardener, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labours.” 

Thomas, diligently digging up weeds to expose their roots, stifles a laugh. “I gathered that when you tried to pull up my geraniums, dearest.”

“I never professed to be a homebody,” James admits, a most delightful blush on his cheeks. “Though it has been mentioned before.”

“The doilies?” Thomas inquires.

“The teacups.”

“Ah, yes. _Those_. You do seem to have a good eye for fine china.”

James hums a soft sound of amusement. His bare knees are speckled with dirt and freckles, having long ago succumbed to rolling his breeches up to mid thigh. The skin is tanned and warm from the sun, slick with sweat; the kind of distraction that Thomas wishes he could somehow immortalise in charcoal or marble lest he forget the sight of it.

But who could possibly forget? James is as stunning now as he was when they first met, so many decades ago. The red of his beard is struck with spun gold, dyed by the sun’s rays, interlaced here and there with streaks of silver and white. His eyes and mouth, framed with lines of hard work and laughter. His hands, callused and rough… and the way they touch each leaf as if surprised by the softness.

James has always been enamoured of softness, Thomas recalls. A sweet ache alights in his chest. There are good memories, there, in the past that haunts them both. Memories of soft kisses and laughter, of James’ lips smeared with peaches and cream.

Of course, there’s nothing stopping them from recreating it. Except for the blasted insects ravaging their poor little peach tree.

“For fuck’s sake,” James snarls, startling Thomas out of his reverie. The look of irritated outrage on his beloveds face is divine, even with the sneering curl of his upper lip. “Whose bright idea was it to plant mint?!” The clever little herb has spread, far exceeding the tiny little patch that had been initially planted, and invaded their vegetables with prolific abandon.

Ah, such rage! Such beauty in emotion! And also inexplicably hilarious, given that the focus of James’ ire is a mere herb. Dusting his hands together to free them of soil Thomas rises from his crouch, all the better to capture James by the jaw and kiss that fiery anger from his lips.

It’s a sweet slide of tongue that leaves them both quite breathless, and muddy hand prints on Thomas’ nice clean breeches. Worth it, though, when James melts against him, chasing his mouth with impatient longing. One kiss becomes two, becomes three, and when they part James ducks his head to suck a bruise to Thomas’ throat, a luscious pain that makes Thomas gasp. 

“That would be you,” Thomas utters, head tipped back to the sky. 

James noses at the hinge of his jaw. “I believe your mind is addled, darling, I’m positive it was your idea.”

“Mm, perhaps it was.”

The sun is warm on Thomas’ face. James presses closer, sets his teeth to tender flesh. 

“The mint can wait,” James suggests, and the sweeping stroke of his palms over Thomas’ backside is salacious in its intent.

“Insatiable.”

“ _Always_.”


End file.
